


Relaxed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Cuddles, No Plot/Plotless, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Musashi doesn’t look up right away when Hiruma emerges from the bedroom at some point late enough that it can’t even graciously be called the morning anymore." Hiruma doesn't like waking up early but Musashi likes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relaxed

Musashi doesn’t look up right away when Hiruma emerges from the bedroom at some point late enough that it can’t even graciously be called the morning anymore. He’s not interested in complaining; it’s the weekend, after all, there’s no particular  _reason_  Hiruma needs to be awake, not after they were up as late the night before as they were. If Musashi’s own body were less prone to routine he’d be asleep himself; as it is he’s the closest thing to it, leaning sideways over the couch and thinking about lifting his feet up too while not-really watching the turned-low television.

“Is there some fucking coffee?” is what Hiruma says by way of greeting. Musashi glances up as the blond leans over the back of the couch, lets the furniture take his weight so he can stretch and grab at the bag of chips Musashi has open in front of him. Musashi grabs it before Hiruma can fall on top of him entirely, offers the bag for the other. Hiruma takes it without offering any kind of thanks, straightens and starts right in on this approximation of breakfast while Musashi returns to his position on the couch.

“There’s some.” He waves a hand in the vague direction of the kitchen, stifles a yawn with the back of his wrist. “It’s hours old, though.”

“Whatever.” Hiruma grabs a handful of chips, tips his head back to drop them into his mouth while he lets the bag fall back into Musashi’s hold. Musashi glances up to watch the delicate angle of the blond’s fingers as he moves, the spikes of his hair rumpled from the bed instead of styling.

He’s allowed to stare for the few seconds it takes Hiruma to finish; then the other is looking back down at him, narrowing his eyes when he catches Musashi staring.

“What do you want, old man?” Hiruma demands, but Musashi’s attention is wandering to the too-large seams of the sweater over his shoulders, the logo of his father’s company printed over the front of the fabric. “You just gonna stare?”

“Is this my sweater?” Musashi reaches out to close his fingers on a handful of fabric. Hiruma could pull away if he wanted, could have dodged the hold entirely if he cared to. Instead he looks down, makes a show of considering the oversized clothing bunched at his wrists and falling past his hips before looking back up and flashing the dangerous-edged grin Musashi loves.

“Are you complaining?” He’s got one eyebrow raised, the question on his lips but not in his eyes. He knows the answer well before Musashi forms it, probably before Musashi knows himself.

“Nah.” Musashi doesn’t have to tug hard to persuade Hiruma over the back of the couch; the blond is moving before he does, swinging one skinny leg up and over so the sweater rides up on his hip to show off a bit of dark boxers and a lot of pale skin. His knees are sharp, enough that a careless motion could prove agonizing, but Hiruma manages to fit himself in against Musashi’s legs and wrap an arm around the other’s shoulders without any apparent effort at all.

“Your sweaters are soft,” he declares into the side of Musashi’s neck. His hair is tickling the other’s nose, the sharp edges of his teeth hinting at the danger of too-obvious bruises, but Musashi doesn’t move away, just settles one hand at the bottom edge of Hiruma’s boxers and slides the other just up under the sweater to confirm that there’s nothing else under it.

“Yeah.” It’s true, and they feel softer when Hiruma’s wearing them, warm like they’re radiant from the inside. Hiruma’s shifting his weight, relaxation seeping into his limbs until Musashi isn’t surprised by the sigh of satisfaction against his neck.

“Are you falling asleep again?” he asks.

“There’s no coffee,” Hiruma mumbles, like this is the end of the matter.

“You only just got up,” Musashi points out, more to acknowledge reality than as any kind of complaint.

Hiruma’s hand comes up to his mouth, the other’s palm fitting in against his lips. “Stop talking,” Hiruma orders. He’s pressed in against Musashi, pinning the other to the couch by the simple fact that Musashi is unwilling to actually dump him over onto the floor. Without getting up neither of them will ever end up with more coffee, and without coffee Hiruma is unlikely to properly wake up for hours still. By all rights Musashi  _should_  push him off, get up and go to the kitchen to start a fresh pot.

He slides his hand sideways, draws his fingers around Hiruma’s waist instead of his back, and lets his eyes fall shut while Hiruma purrs wordless satisfaction against his throat. It’s not like they’re in any kind of a rush, after all.


End file.
